


When in Limbo

by LittleBuddy



Category: MASH (TV)
Genre: Gen, based on TZ episodes, mash meets the twilight zone, resolution? who's she?, will add more characters as it grows
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-25
Updated: 2020-11-24
Packaged: 2021-03-10 03:15:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,927
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27706795
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LittleBuddy/pseuds/LittleBuddy
Summary: On the edge of reality, another plane of existence sometimes merges with that of our everyday lives. Ordinary people find themselves dealing with extraordinary circumstances, questioning reality - and possibly their own sanity. MASH/Twilight Zone.(Chpt 1 - The Priest and the Devil)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 4





	When in Limbo

"There is a fifth dimension beyond that which is known to man. It is a dimension as vast as space and as timeless as infinity. It is the middle ground between light and shadow, between science and superstition, and it lies between the pit of man's fears and the summit of his knowledge. This is the dimension of imagination. It is an area which we call the Twilight Zone."  
\- Rod Serling

* * *

Rain drove at him from the side, wind threatening to blow him over with each step. Thunder growled across the clouds with a ferocity that made him flinch. A crack of lightning split the sky above him, and in the residual light, he searched for signs of the road.

“You know, Lord…” He lost his footing, slipping to a knee in the mud. “I’m not a swearing man. But this…” he pushed himself up and took another cautious step forward. “This situation makes it quite tempting.” A large clap of thunder punctuated the end of his sentence. He frowned. “I know, I know!”

To his left, something caught his eye. Pausing, Mulcahy squinted toward the trees, unsure if he’d actually seen something or - no, there it was! A light! His heart fluttered and he started to move toward it, mind racing to the thought of warmth and a dry pair of socks. Maybe a cup of something hot, if he were really lucky.

It seemed to take a lifetime to close the distance between himself and the light. The nearer he got, the more certain he was that it was some sort of dwelling. He was almost on top of it before he realized the light was actually a giant storm lantern, swinging from a hook in a great stone wall. To the right of the lamp, a giant set of wooden doors. Mulcahy paused. Something twisted in the bottom of his gut, an almost foreboding feeling. He shook it off. 

“Come on, Francis. If the Lord wanted you to be a chicken, he would’ve given you wings.” With that, he rapped on the doors. A hollow, echoey sound reverberated on the other side of the large entryway. He waited, pulling his army-issue jacket closer around his shoulders. Not that it did any good - he was soaked to the bone. After a moment, he knocked again. Moments later, the door swung inward with a groan.

“Yes?” The man who answered the door towered over Mulcahy, a staff in one hand and a lantern in the other.

“I’m sorry if I’m intruding, but I seem to be a bit lost. Could I possibly-”

“You can’t come in. We don’t allow visitors.” The man started to shut the door, but Mulcahy stuck his foot out, keeping it from swinging shut completely.

“Please - this is a monastery, yes? Surely you would allow me sanctuary until the storm passes?”

The man regarded him stonily, arm barring the door. Finally, he stepped aside, opening the door. “Quickly, now.”

Mulcahy squeezed through the doorway. His wet shoes squeaked on the floor, a small noise made louder to him by the sudden silence that came with being indoors. The door slammed shut behind him, and the man barred it before turning back to Mulcahy.

“Sit. Wait here.”

Sinking into the chair offered him, Mulcahy breathed a sigh of relief. Eerie as the place was, at least he wasn’t swimming in the mud anymore. He leaned his head against the wall, closing his eyes briefly. Fatigue coursed through him as he let himself acknowledge his body for the first time in hours. His feet hurt, his nose was cold, and his underwear was sticking to him like it’d been plastered on. Sitting felt exquisite. 

A long, sorrowful howl yanked him from his thoughts. He jolted upright, feeling a tight pull of his neck muscles protesting the sudden movement. He sat stock still, heart racing. After a moment, he wondered if he’d fallen asleep and just dreamed - 

There it was again.

He didn’t move, afraid somehow to break the silence. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea after all. Mud might be preferable to - to what? 

“Ah-hm.” The man had returned, and he beckoned at Mulcahy.

“Forgive me for being somewhat wary, but - what was that?” Mulcahy pointed in the direction the noise had come from. Lanterns leading around the curve in the hallway flickered against the arched walls, creating an illusion that made the hall look like it was moving. He shook his head slightly and turned to peer questioningly at the monk.

“Nothing. The wind. Come.”

Mulcahy was frozen, trying to decide whether or not to accept that explanation. He wondered how long it would be before his friends back at camp got a hold of the orphanage and realized he was missing. When the monk continued on without him, Mulcahy shoved the thoughts down and hurried to catch up, military reg boots pounding heavily on the tiled ground. The monk led him down a secondary hallway and stopped just before a tall wooden door.

“Brother Jones will see you now.” The monk waved his hand inside. Suddenly remembering his hat, Mulcahy grabbed at the straw brim, yanking it off his head as he entered the study.  
Book upon book lined the tall shelves. On one bookshelf a large horned skull sat staring over the room. On yet another, a birds nest, complete with eggs. In the center of the room sat a large ironwood desk, dark candles dripping wax down the candelabras. The man behind the desk was the true source of interest, however. Built much like the first man, he was tall, with a beard that would’ve reached his belt even if he’d been standing.

“I am brother Jones. Allow me to cut straight to the chase - you are not welcome here.”

For a split second, Mulcahy thought Jones was kidding with him. Who would toss someone back out into a storm at midnight? The man’s face didn’t change, however, and Mulcahy’s grin faded.

“I’m sorry, but I don’t understand.”

“I believe it’s quite easy to understand, my son.” The man rose from his chair, grabbing a staff that leaned against the wall. He turned to Mulcahy and paused. “You must leave. Now.”

“Well, I never - fine!” Mulcahy felt himself seized with a surge of irritation. “I’ll go! I may forget this, but I know someone who won’t!” With a wet squelch, he turned on his heel and strode out of the room. He could feel his temperature rising, a flush crawling up his neck. Coming to the intersection of hallways, he paused, unsure which direction led to the exit. His head throbbed and he wavered. The shadows dancing on the stone walls made him dizzy and the air seemed tighter in here, like there was less of it, and less of it, and everything was muffled and - the floor met him with a resounding _smack!_ as he lost consciousness.

* * *

The howling had started up again. He was sure that’s what it was now, the cries pulling him from the dark and forcing him to open his eyes. Mulcahy rubbed his elbow, wincing at the tender bruise sure to be blossoming under his fatigues. Sitting up, he pulled his glasses off and rubbed his eyes. _This is insanity._ He listened to the wail echoing down the hallway toward him with a growing feeling of anxiety. The howl cut off in a choked sob, and Mulcahy made his mind up right then. Glancing around, he rose from the stone bench he’d been deposited on and followed the sound, ignoring the tickling feeling of fear at the back of his mind.

Letting the sound guide him, Mulcahy trekked along the halls. He expected to see someone around every corner, heart thumping a little harder until he saw he was alone. He wasn’t sure what was going on, but nothing here felt quite right. He scowled to himself, frustrated that he was even here. If he’d had a jeep, he wouldn’t have been out so long. If the orphans at the village actually got the things they needed, he wouldn’t have been gone at all. And heaven forbid anything ever happen when they were having good weather.

Finally, he rounded the corner and stopped in the room where the howling was originating from. In the wall was set a door, iron bars creating a small window. Across the door, a chain, etched with what looked like Hebrew. A face peered at him from the other side of the bars, wide eyes framed by dark lashes. Achingly slow, Mulcahy crept closer, easing forward until he and the man stood separated only by the bars.

“Help me!” The man reached out, grasping the priest by his jacket and pulling him close. Mulcahy pulled back as far as the man’s grasp would allow him, heart pounding in his chest.

“I… I’m sorry. I don’t mean to frighten you.” The fingers on his shirt loosened but didn’t let go. “Please, please help me. Please.”

His mouth had turned to cotton and Mulcahy practically had to pry his tongue from the roof of his mouth before he could speak. “What is going on here?” He shook his head, gesturing at the cell. 

“What - what is this?”

The man’s eyes fell, and he closed them for a beat. When he opened them, they were filled with tears.“Father - you are a man of the cloth, yes?”

Mulcahy nodded slowly. 

“Tell me - is it a sin to love?”

“I don’t believe so, no. Love is the greatest of all things, I’d say. But what does that-”

“Listen, father,” the man cut him off. “We don’t have much time. The monks are out of their minds. They’ve been crazed, delusioned by years of religious zeal. It was love that landed me here.”

“Love? I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

“Morana. Sweet, beautiful Morana.” The man’s voice bore a wistful tone, and his eyes took on an expression not unlike the look that Mulcahy had seen in men as they talked of their wives, or addicts when they spoke of their temptation. 

“She is the most beautiful thing I’ve ever set eyes on, and she fills my every thought. We were walking beneath the trees when they came upon us. I’d paused to kiss her, completely stricken by her beauty.” He choked out a sob, and Mulcahy felt a strong urge to console him. The door proved an obstacle, and he settled on grasping the man’s forearm instead.

“They took you for that?”

“They’re crazy. Crazy!” The man howled again, the despair so audible that it seemed to travel all the way down his spine and back up again. Goosebumps traveled up his arms, and he shivered.  
Mulcahy waited, the echoes of the cry dying against the stone walls. “Well, loving someone is not a sin…”

“You don’t think so. I don’t think so! But Jones, he’s jealous. Angry, even. She refused his advances once, you see. Chose me, and… He beat me.”

Mulcahy couldn’t help the astonishment that dropped his mouth open. “Beat you!?”

“And dragged me here.” The man’s fist tightened on his jacket again, pulling him closer. “Please.”

Mulcahy frowned, easing his hand up to the man’s fist and slowly removing the fingers from where they knotted in the fabric. “I’m sorry, I just… I’m finding this all hard to believe.”

“Of course you are! That’s the genius of him, don’t you see?” The man let his hand fall, scrubbing his eyes with his fingers. “I understand that you’re both men of devotion. But Jones’ devotion is not to religion, but power. He’s desperate for acceptance. This is not a hermitage of monks, but of outcasts and madmen, desperate for some semblance of authority over the world.”

Mulcahy stood still, fatigue pulling at the corners of his mind until it felt fuzzy even trying to comprehend what the man was saying. The evening’s events flashed through his mind, scattered and disjointed like a bad film from a mess tent movie night, picture and sound cutting in and out.

“Please. I don’t mean to say they’re evil.” The man’s voice was gentle, and Mulcahy wondered briefly what it would be like to listen to him speak the rest of the night. “Just that they’re mad. Misguided.”

“Father.”

Mulcahy whipped around, the sound of the monk’s voice startling him from his thoughts. Jones stood in the doorway to the small alcove, two other monks flanking him. Each carried a long staff similar to the one Jones leaned on, curved at the end like a shepherd's staff.

“I didn’t know you’d woken.” He looked Mulcahy over with disdain. “Come with me.”

“I want to speak with you,” Mulcahy said. “I’m concerned about-” Mulcahy bit his sentence off, stopping himself just short of saying ‘your prisoner’. He didn’t know what was going on, but he didn’t want to make assumptions. Or worse, make enemies of the monks. He was outnumbered here, after all.

“With me.”

Mulcahy followed Jones down the corridor. He glanced back for a moment, meeting the man’s eyes. They were dark, pleading. Mulcahy felt a twinge of sorrow for him, and then they rounded the corner and he was gone.

“I must ask you what that man is doing here,” Mulcahy said. He walked faster, catching up to the long-legged monk. “On what grounds are you keeping him here?”

Jones didn’t slow. They passed a tall, ovular window, lightning illuminating the rain that streaked down the glass panes.

“That is no man.” Jones stopped just in front of the entryway doors. “You are wildly naive to the situation.”

“No man?” Mulcahy’s brow furrowed. “He seems very much a man to me.”

“He is not a man! That thing, that creature - he is every bit the devil himself!”

Silence followed the yell. Mulcahy chose his words carefully. When he found his voice, it was quieter than he’d hoped. 

“I don’t know what kind of atrocities he’s committed, but surely it would be better to allow the local government to decide his consequences?” 

The monk was silent for a moment. He shook his head, staring at a spot on the ceiling.

“You still don’t understand.”

“What is there to understand? You have a man locked in the dungeon and you can’t explain why!”

“He is not a man, I tell you!” Jones slammed the end of his staff to the ground. “He is the _devil!_ ”

“I could tell the authorities, you know. I may very well do that, actually.” The words surprised Mulcahy even as he said them, but he meant it. It was his obligation to stand for the oppressed and aid those in need, both inside and outside the 4077. No matter the crimes committed, sinners weren't excluded from due process and a fair chance at defense.

“You mustn’t.” Jones met his eyes. He looked suddenly older, as though he’d aged a year in the last few minutes. “Have you seen the small village just south of here?”

Mulcahy nodded.

“When I first came here, years ago, they were content. Peaceful. Worshipful, even. Their isolation and resources made their faith easy, unperturbed. It was too tempting for the devil to resist, and he wrecked them. Lust and idolatry, murder - things that had never been there, were. But we…” he trailed off, a different kind of light entering his eyes. “Light prevailed.”

The howling resumed as if on cue. Fear trailed it's cold hand up Mulcahy’s spine before wrapping around his lungs. He forced himself to take a deep breath, loosening the steely grip.

“If this man is truly the devil, and you’re acting in the Lord’s name.. Well, I suppose I can understand why you’ve kept him here. I just... what _proof_ do you have?"

Jones studied him curiously, mouth pressed in a thin line. “Doubt is normal and to be expected, but I ask you to show some faith. The land is sick. You know this. You can see now what we're up against."

Mulcahy nodded. That he could. The monk was right about one thing - the infection that was so clouding the inner workings of the hermitage was not one of physical ailment, but of mental derangement. Self-focused religious fervor soured many a good priest, but this was like nothing Mulcahy had seen before.

“I believe I do. You’re waging the Lord’s battles.” Mentally, he asked forgiveness for the lie.

“You may stay the rest of the night. We only have a few hours until daybreak.” Jones rubbed his eyes. “I am going to retire. Please, go directly down this hallway to brother Michael’s room. He will set you up with a spare cot.”

Mulcahy nodded, forcing a smile. “Thank you, and um - goodnight.”

“Goodnight, my son. Oh-" the monk fixed him with a steely glare. "Don't make any stops along the way."

As soon as the footsteps of the monk faded to silence, Mulcahy doubled back and turned down the hallway toward the prisoner. When he rounded the corner, the room was blessedly empty of all monks. 

“You’ve come back!”

Mulcahy rushed to the door. “How do I get this open?”

“Lift it. Just lift it off.”

Upon further inspection, the chain was indeed free. Where it joined, it was loose enough to pick up and slip over the hooks on either side of the door.

“Why, this is all that’s been keeping you in?” Mulcahy reached for the chain, the metal cool to the touch. His head was aching again, a persistent throb near in his temples. He was going to have to take some in-camp R&R when he got back to the compound.

“Yes! Hurry now, father. If they catch you, I’m afraid of what they’ll do to you.”

Mulcahy ran his fingers along the metal links, suddenly second guessing himself. “Why haven’t you-”

“Please, in the name of mercy. Please.”

 _In the name of mercy._ Mulcahy let his hand drop from the length of chain, grappling with the concept. Was it merciful to act on half-evidence? The monks were disillusioned, that much was obvious. But then again.... He had his doubts about the prisoner, too. There was something inherently wrong about the whole situation, something he couldn't quite put his finger on. It all seemed muddled, so condensed that he was having trouble wading through it. Theoretically - if the man were truly Satan - then by letting him go, he did evil in his attempt to do good. If, on the other hand, he was just a human being, trapped by madmen - Mulcahy wasn't sure he could handle that hanging over his head, wondering every day if he'd done the right thing. Was it enough to act on what you believed was right?

"Father?"

Mulcahy closed his eyes and held his breath. _Would Satan really humble himself and take the form of man?_ This was ridiculous.

The lightness of the chain took him by surprise. It wasn’t difficult to remove at all - on the contrary, he could hold the whole chain in one hand.

“Hurry. We must leave quickly,” Mulcahy said. He turned to leave, but suddenly found himself dragged to the ground. The weight of the chain was suddenly enormous, pinning him to the ground like a pile of bricks.

The man - the _devil_ \- paused next to him. Mulcahy took in the man’s appearance from head to toe. Gone were the rags of a prisoner. Gone was the dirt, the coat of filth, the air of a victim. He was drawing, intriguing - dark, like a jeep crash you couldn’t tear your eyes away from. The two ebony horns surprised Mulcahy most of all, curling outward from the head like corsican ram horns. Had they been there the whole time? Had he been that blind? 

Then he was going, leaving Mulcahy on the ground. When he rounded the corner, the weight of the chain lightened. Gasping for air, Mulcahy pushed it off. His fingers fell in the grooves of Hebrew etched along the surface, and for the first time, he read the inscription. _Revelation 20:1-3._

A hand on his shoulder alerted him to the presence of one of the monks, but Mulcahy’s mind was elsewhere, visualizing the words of the passage grooved into the metal.

_“ **1** Then I saw an angel coming down from heaven. He had in his hand a key to the hole without a bottom. He also had a strong chain. **2** He took hold of the dragon, that old snake, who is the Devil, and chained him for 1,000 years. **3** The angel threw the devil into the hole without a bottom. He shut it and locked him in it. He could not fool the nations anymore until the 1,000 years were completed. After this he must be free for awhile.”_

* * *

The camp seemed surreal to Mulcahy, like going from a black and white picture to the real world too quickly. The monks had pointed him in the right direction that next morning and sent him on his way. Folks at the camp had been understanding, but then again, he hadn’t shared everything with them. How could he? The priest who set the devil free. That one would’ve warranted a visit from Sidney, and possibly an all-expenses paid trip to the overnight hotel of lunatics and survivors. No, he wouldn’t be sharing the whole story any time soon.

They had a push on the day after he returned to camp. Hoping for relief from his thoughts in the form of a distraction, Mulcahy hurried to help. 

Five hours into surgery, he had to administer the third set of last rites.

Eight hours into surgery, Mulcahy swore he heard a soldier say his name just before he died.

Fifteen hours into surgery, Radar entered the room, holding a clipboard over his face as a makeshift mask. “Bad news - especially for you, father. That little village you took that medicine to the other day? They were hit bad. No word on what happened exactly, but it looks like it was a miscommunication.”

“The devil’s in the details,” Potter intoned. Startled, Mulcahy dropped a clamp onto a tray with a clatter. He mumbled an apology, tuning out the rest of Radar’s report.

He’d been reassuring himself ever since he’d left the monastery, reminding himself almost hourly that men needed no assistance in doing wrong, that despite Jones’ warnings, there was still the fact that evil had gone on while the devil was held in a cell.

Now he saw the truth. The blood staining his gloves stained his hands, his arms, his chest. It dripped under the neck of his shirt and trickled down his chest, throbbing with the beat of the lives he felt responsible for. It didn’t matter. If he’d have left that night, instead of removing the chain, the war would’ve carried on, and he would’ve forfeited his right to advise anyone on the topic of mercy. The suffering would’ve gone on. 

They’re eighteen hours in. BJ shifts where he stands, trying to stretch a back aching from hours of operating. 

“If I were Catholic, I think the last day worth of surgery would cover all my time in purgatory,” Hawkeye says.

“I concur,” Charles adds. “I believe Shakespeare must’ve been projecting onto this moment in time when he wrote the words ‘hell is empty, and all the devils are here.’”

Mulcahy studies the soldier on the table and thinks about the engraved chain stowed safely in the chest under his cot. He hopes the devil’s here. He’s ready.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Rabb for reading this over for me <3
> 
> Morana, the devil's lady friend, is named after the goddess of winter and death in Slavic mythology.  
> I was thinking about doing Radar next, thanks to some STELLAR suggestions from [boysatthemorgue.](/users/boysatthemorgue/) Check out their MASH/TZ story as well!


End file.
